


Of Every Roses (of the Night)

by Zvesemery



Category: Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: A very very long oneshot, Angry Kissing, Angst, Angst and Spice, Ardhalis deserves better leaders smfh, Crack Taken Too Seriously, Dakan please you deserve better than this, Ex-Lovers to Enemies, Headcanon, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I could've changed them to lauren and kieran and nothing will change, I'm not kidding it's toxic, It's just Royalty AU toxic!Lauki, It's just royalties acting like 18 year olds, Lovers To Enemies, Lowkey a Dakistan fic if you squint, Masquerade, Multi, Okay folks HERE WE GOOOOO, Pick Your Battles Dakan : The Fic, Please don't burn me at this stake, Poetic for no reason, Royalties with 0 braincells because they're all fools, Symbolism because I pretend to be smart, This is a mess but ok, This is my peak degeneracy, WALTZ FIC, Yeah you read that right, crackship, toxic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:01:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27936812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zvesemery/pseuds/Zvesemery
Summary: Dakan has always molded his heart like a rose, a flower. It's been his favourite, preferable over purple hyacinths.But the one thing about flowers. No matter how loved, how esteemed, how turbulent they are against the snowstorms, the greenhouses, the gardeners.They all decay.
Relationships: Lizbeth Aevasther/Dakan Rhysmel, Tristan Sinclair/Dakan Rhysmel (Background)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Of Every Roses (of the Night)

**Author's Note:**

> Jokes aside, I wanted to make it clear that this fic was written mainly for the purpose of character study. I wanted to write something different, themes that are darker and toxic than I'd usually dare to try. I do not intend in any way to justify any of what the characters are doing. This is mainly a crackship, and I thought it'd be fun if we came up with headcanons about them. This may seem semi-AU because it might be a little OOC. Haha. Growing up, I've never thought I'd write crack this seriously. 
> 
> Also, this fic is thoroughly dedicated for my friend, [Rin](https://www.instagram.com/kieranwhiteribbon/). The one who got me into shipping Dakanbeth, something I despised at the beginning, but now I've come to love it despite the circumstances. So if you're reading this, hey, THIS IS FOR YOU HAHAHA. But also for all the Dakanbeth shippers out there hiding in the bush. Come out, don't be shy- yeah. Okay okay.
> 
> That being said, I hope you'd enjoy OUR kind of guilty pleasure <3
> 
> (TW : mild mentions of death, drowning, and blood)

  
  


Tapping, tapping, tapping.

  
  


It was what Dakan had been doing for the past 20 minutes - to tap on his quill whilst holding onto the telephone. 

  
  


It felt ponderous against his shoulders - draped within his dusky gold aiguillette, and his primeval jubilee medal. Something he should’ve been proud of, but somehow, it was a heavier burden than the sharpest tips of the crown. And it throbbed through his fervor, his sanity, tremors tightening as he tried to tone down by calling an old friend. That night, he’d wear red. _The red rose_.

  
  


"I know it's getting shallow at the palace,” Tristan muttered through the phone, voice all low and husky. It's been a while since they met, and this ache just wouldn't go away. “So I suggest you not force yourself into visiting, _we understand_. Also can’t you just skip the party, tonight?”

  
  


“Their Majesties have high demands, it’s the last party we could hold before the shipments arrived, anyway,” Dakan snickered, stroking his chin. His expression melted as he peered at the crimson mask he obtained as a gift, when he was first assigned to be the late King Edward’s personal aide-de-camp. The mask looked luxurious yet simple in design, completed in ornate carvings and darkened antiques. “Should’ve spent those pennies more on investments, you know." He scraped forward, "-charity! But it had already been done earlier, so I don’t really have a say to prevent this.”

  
  


“ _Right,_ I’ve heard. My niece’s boyfriend told me about it. Hard to believe, I must admit.”

  
  


“Haha! Exactly, I haven’t wrapped my head around how the queen actually signed the pact.”

  
  


The advisor’s office had always been ebony and dark, walls towered by shelves holding dusty library books. The dusky ambience didn't help his predicament. 

  
  


Looking at the massive window, he mentally painted a picture of Ardhalis in ruins - he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it. Where the sky would become velvet and the clouds would dissolve into ashes. Dakan stood, opening the window, letting the gratifying breeze flow into the room, as Tristan continued. “Listen, but again.. you’ve always been worried about everything - everyone but yourself. That’ll break you someday, you know. Don’t blame me if you collapsed the stairs out of fatigue.”

  
  


Seagulls were seen dancing from a distance, complimenting the fading sun. Dakan let out a muffled, constipated laughter. “There's no time for pats on the back, Tristan. I realize how urgent this is to be talked about, since our _discussion_ back at the new years party wasn't enough.”

  
  


Throughout all these years, speaking to the chief felt like talking to an old friend. Or even something more, something genuine. It always warms his heart everytime he hears his voice. _I've missed you,_ he wanted to say. _We need you here._

  
  


The sound of nobles chattering and laughing mildly heard across the hallway - even through his closeted domain. Dakan immediately closed the window, as the sun had already set. Darkness gradually clad the skies. Of what’s left of the window was now his reflection. Him and his masquerade wear. Him and his lonely library office, with a phone in hand, looking tormented. He thought calling his closest friend would ease the freight in his chest, but not too much.

  
  


Tristan let out a heavy sigh. "I’m sorry."

  
  


Dakan scowled, wondering if he could read his mind. "What?" 

  
  


They’ve known each other for years, decades - even. Yet sometimes, everything feels so far apart. Apologizing has never really been something Tristan would do. But they understand each other too well, that they get to listen to one another’s hearts.

  
  


“I’m sorry, Dakan. I’ve failed you-”

  
  


“No - no Tristan! What are you apologizing for? You-- you and the police, you have done everything you could!”

  
  


“-Yet we couldn’t stop the shipments from arriving. The last batch, according to reports, would appear by February, and I’m afraid that there wouldn't be enough time to dismiss them." He halted for several beats. Neither said a word. "I sense the agony in your voice, Dakan. You don't have to lie to me.”

  
  


_You don’t have to lie to me._

  
  


It wasn't the slight warmth burning up his chest in nostalgia as he peered a little lower from the window. 

  
  


_It was that memory again._

  
  


_The mistake._

  
  


"I wish I could call you any day, Dakan," Tristan mused, voice seemingly genuine.

  
  


_Everything around him was already clad in fire, ruins. People yelling, crying, howling. They run away from the source of explosion, the waltzing ashes throughout the air, withering away, away, away - until it's an acrylic, motionless painting of a secret garden where everything is dying, rotting, begging for life. It's dull, it’s blue, it was definitely blue. What was scarlet was now drenched in water._

  
  


“Hey, Dakan?" 

  
  


_You can’t run away from it._

  
  


_You don’t._

  
  


"Oh, it must be the weather. I'll hang up in a bit--"

  
  


“Ah! Apologies, apologies.” He sat back, patting his swept-back hair. “Yeah, I put my trust in you. I wish I could call you any day too,” he admitted, it’s been the hundredth time he’s called him under the course of a few months. The moment he heard his voice, the moment everything would seem _fine,_ for once. “And I'm sorry, I've had a lot in my mind, I- I- I don't know what I'm supposed to do. If, if only everything would be alright."

  
  


_It was a lie._

  
  


"I know you're having a hard time making promises. This Purple Hyacinth business is getting out of hand once we know that he turned up the wrong people for _Lune,_ I’d almost wonder if he's rebelling the Phantom Scythe," Tristan cut him off in reassurance. "But so do I, it’s our job to make promises we can’t make to the people. Our job to assure everyone when assassins could take their lives in their sleep," He halted again. "It's been exhausting, hasn't it?"

  
  


A chuckle rang. “Just _now_ that you're saying that."

  
  


"You know if you still have concerns, you can talk to me,” Tristan promised.

  
  


_You're against Lune. I side with Lune. I can't tell you that yet._

  
  


"Oh, I'm afraid I've been burdening you with these.." Dakan batted his palm to the air, voice airy. "..Nightly talks. I suppose? So I'm sorry for that, Tristan."

  
  


"Haha! Don’t be sorry. I'm looking forward to the next. Make sure to pay a visit again before the Viscount's ball!"

  
  


Dakan coughed, preventing himself from dropping another truth. _Good thing Tristan doesn't know that Redcliff was the Seventh Apostle._ "As if the New Years wasn't enough? You’ve mentioned to yourself that I was getting busy.”

  
  


"How can I get enough of you?" 

  
  


The smile Dakan made was the brightest in a while.

  
  


Neither said anything for a while, Tristan let out a giggle.

  
  


“I'll.. see you at the party. Make sure to stay safe, unless the bomb went off earlier.”

  
  


"Sure, sure! Stay safe." Dakan put down the phone - not immediately letting go. He hasn't smiled in a while - the comfort of someone familiar, who used to be close to him. If only the circumstances were better - if he had stopped dealing with another certain someone that's been the source problem in his life. He’s had this mental image for a while - a life outside the castle, an uncomplicated viability, with little to no risk to take. Maybe to reside at the Sinclairs, or even spend his time reading at his house alone. If it weren’t for Lizbeth Aevasther’s doings. If he didn’t have to bear the sins of others every time.

  
  


And this might be the last night he could convince her to stop.

  
  


He stomped his way out to the ballroom. He hoped it'd be a good time.

  
  


He's always molded his heart like a rose, a flower. It's been his favourite, preferable over hyacinths. 

  
  


But the one thing about flowers. No matter how loved, how esteemed, how turbulent they are against the snowstorms, the greenhouses, the gardeners.

  
  


They all decay.

  
  


////

  
  
  


To step into the ballroom was to step into a losing war. He’d known this from the start.

  
  


It was his veins, the boiling rage, disgust, the hidden agitation, as the magnificent dance hall admitted itself to his senses. The castle's ceilings had witnessed too much drench and blood along the way, the mural of his mistakes. He didn’t need reminders. They’ve known blood for so long that it wouldn't need more. 

  
  


Although magnificent on the surface, the Castle of the Aevasthers wasn't one of a dollhouse. Wasn't one of any water-coloured fairy tales written for children in the country. The chamber of old sinners. An execution in which no man could escape from. It would crawl upon you, haunt you with its spectral presence. Dark stones and granite, marbled floors and hallways. Chandeliers witnessing your death sentence. Past sinners and misconducts. Sorrow and guilt.

  
  


_Fortis Sicut Cervus,_

  
  


_My impenetrable deer,_

  
  


_Venustati vel Hyacinthus._

  
  


_You fall into the charm of hyacinths._

  
  


_Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow. They ought to stay away from the term. Forbidden._

  
  


Written through the rich-embroidered banners. The royal family's crest. In desperate need of attestation, attention, _validation._

  
  


_To worship, to worship, down on your knees and repent your sins._

  
  


The second story of the ballroom was no different - it was illustrious, where the orchestra was preparing themselves to chime baptizing melodies, cleansing the night. Dakan twitched his lips, fear gurgling through his throat, feeling a little weary yet a little stronger. A knight’s all to do was to skip, to count from one to eight, to bring down the final battle. To bring down the queen.

  
  


But the final battle was of Lizbeth Aevasther.

  
  


Her tall figure was quiet, frozen, looking at the ballroom like a lady on a mission, from a place high up. Like a goddess; separate, superior, unattainable, _untouchable_. Dakan felt an ache anchoring his heart when she turned her head towards him, indifferent. The midnight-tinted sheets of her navy-layered gown draped on her body. A bejewelled choker delicately adorning her swan-like neck as sapphire gem drops trail along her collarbone. Her hair kept up in a classic updo that complements her everlasting regal disposition, unaccompanied with her usual, sapphire crown.

  
  


She needed no crown to reign. _The blue rose._

  
  


Then she was walking closer, he felt a knot on his stomach. The enemy, the devil. And there was no way he could escape. Even closer, closer, closer. The firebird, the diamond.

  
  


_For there was one rule held in the high court._

  
  


_You don't escape from the queen._

  
  


_You get trapped, to plummet down her agonizing presence. The master of threads._

  
  


“You’re late,” and she hissed. It felt like a scar, with a pair of prying eyes.

  
  


"Running out of ideas to greet your advisor properly, Your Majesty?" Dakan bowed as he kissed her hand, deadpanned. The chandeliers were slowly lit as the moon rose higher, higher. “I deeply apologize.”

  
  


Lizbeth let out a soft, threatening laugh, she didn’t bother asking what he was up to. “I have my own ways with things. Thought it has clearly become apparent to you.”

  
  


“May I assume that you wouldn’t partake in pleasantries as well?”

  
  


"Pleasantries never fit me,” she asserted, narrowing her gaze. “There are some complications to be discussed. I’m afraid we wouldn’t have much time conversing, all thanks to you.”

  
  


_This is just one of the reasons she's barely invited to any of the Sinclairs' parties._

  
  


_Sharper than flints. Crueler than shards._

  
  


"Then proceed, Your Majesty _,_ " Dakan let out a solemn scoff. The conversation was much less indifferent than he thought it'd be. Probably because it could be their last, before everyone fell from grace. 

  
  


Lizbeth fixed her gaze on his dulled-emerald eyes, before looking at the monochrome floors. She owned no room for sentiments. “I would like your eager explanation regarding the shipments. How and where did you learn about it?”

  
  


“Reports. I've told you before.” _Don't forget that._ Dakan walked, rearing his back against the copper-dipped balustrade. Yellow light gleaming behind him. “Directly from the Viscount -- _Redcliff_ , himself. This source material is reliable, I promise you. Our spymaster - Photographer Dylan Rosenthal - had gotten into it. He's made sure to keep an eye on both Sandman and Sake. We'd need to provide more films so he can proceed to the next mission.”

  
  


Their meetings used to feel like autumns and bookstores and fireplaces, but it had been buried down deep under the diamond ornaments of her crown.

  
  


The fixated look on her face caught him off guard. Dakan paused for a split second. It was like plowing through ancient wounds, wrongdoings and mistakes. Leave. _Leave. LEAVE._

  
  


Lizbeth noticed the seething silence, like a bite in the dark. “And then?”

  
  


"I…” He cleared his throat, trying to ignore the brief slip-up on his part. “They had already been planned by several anonymous parties months in advance. Bringing in vials and other kinds of weaponries,” he continued. "We're certain it won’t be a part of his decorations. Burning down a house to ruin a whole city. Forging everything through fear, to create a new narrative-"

  
  


"- _Deceptions, you mean,_ " Lizbeth cut. Tone stoic. Cold. Sharp. She could burn down the entire country in a single word. “You've been trying to write a narrative so the people would side with you. _Again_.” More nobles were arriving, and the room felt like a higher tide. Crossing her arms, she raised her voice, threatening. “Do you actually believe you can get away with this? Framing the seventh apostle - _Redcliff_ , so you wouldn't spend your sleepless nights in the tower? If you think no one knows you’re still a Snapdragon, Rhysmel, thank me for that. And now it's just a matter of time."

  
  


He gulped, inquisitive. 

  
  


“A matter of time until what?”

  
  


“ _Philip_ is keeping an eye on you,” Lizbeth implored, holding her head higher. “So do I. Be attentive of your steps before you can get away with murder.”

  
  


_That wasn’t new._

  
  


“Well, I get away through negotiations, not murder,” Dakan corrected, he _had_ to. He had to make sure he was on the right. He was on the light. 

  
  


“ _Biased_ negotiations,” she barked back, not stuttering. Lizbeth had always been certain with her words, bullets shot without second thought. Occasionally, it was part of her charm. In actuality, it was her unadulterated apathy. "You enslave others to do the killi-"

  
  


“- Biased? I believe it's called _common sense,_ Your Majesty. I condemn any actions done by those monsters and I have the very right to say that I'm innocent.” He retorted, gripping on his hands harder. If him overstepping boundaries would piss her off, he might as well keep doing it. Particularly, to enrage her. To curb over her. “Plus, I’m not like the Snapdragons. I conceded in order to ignite reforms. And, I'm much dissimilar to the leader of Phantom Scythe. He’s just seconds away from having his head decapitated.”

  
  


The band of musicians were getting ready. _Just now had they arrived._ With their cellos, the strings, drums, and brasses. The lords and nobles present giggled about them from below. The orchestra were well-dressed in those lavish black suits, complete with a red rose ornament on their masks. They seemed ecstatic to put on another show. If only life was that easy - when you spend your days practicing your music instead of how to survive. When you focus on your playing instead of an unpleasant discussion about the fate of a country.

  
  


_Black with red._

  
  


_Black with gold._

  
  


_Blue roses and spectacles. No one needed hyacinths. The sorrow was over._

  
  


“And you should watch out for yours, too,” he reminded her.

  
  


Then it was the look she gave him again. Those brimming sapphire eyes. Almost unseen behind that bejewelled, columbina mask of hers. Sometimes they could be silver, piercing in. But now they were both the most beautiful thing one may see, and the deadliest ones.

  
  


Sometimes it felt like a metaphor, other times, not at all.

  
  


Lizbeth’s lips curved into a thin line, unamused. “Someone really should quit the habit of cutting me between sentences.”

  
  


“Someone really should recall who's been protecting her from the people," he snarled. 

  
  


“Lizbeth?”

  
  


A familiar figure stepped in. Dakan immediately fixed his posture, brushing the dust off his suit. _He better not think of things he shouldn't be thinking about._

  
  


" _Philip,_ " her manner immediately changed into something sweeter - a big smile on her face, another curtain rise for her charades. Dakan felt tense. He can’t be here. He had to get away from her. _She doesn’t belong here. Lizbeth, LIZBETH, DON’T YOU DARE-_

  
  


"Ah, and Dakan Rhysmel, sir." The king, in his usual, navy-blue military wear, greeted. He was no fool, but he absolutely had no faith in himself that he had to depend his life on his two advisors. He’s battling a losing game. Philip kissed Lizbeth’s hand before assisting her to the centre of the ballroom, _the opening ceremony._

  
  


Dakan had no say about this. His thoughts were of darkened scrapes of schemes to tear her down. _Tear her down. She was going to meet her end in no time. He would make sure of that._

  
  


But the queen was the diamond, frigid and heartless. Nothing is crueler than having her in your arms.

  
  


She clicked her tongue, striding past him. Like they'd always did, never having the desire to have each other's backs.

  
  


Roses, red roses and blue.

  
  


Those were his favourites.

  
  


But now they decay. They wither.

  
  


They fall.

  
  


////

  
  


When an old melody arrived, the battle had commenced.

  
  


When miscreants spoke of traditions, the party had begun.

  
  


The tune was hauntingly opulent, in actuality. Part frightening, part glorious. Then it dawned upon him - Dakan had recognized the tune since childhood, it was pretty jarring to see what his life came to be. Party guests, fellow men harnessed in vain, clapping, clapping in awe. This was probably the hundredth time they'd seen this, a familiar view, a feeling, a sentiment. But even the sweetest of wines and the finest of drinks wouldn't purify the ballroom from its past fallacies. For the castle’s chambers shall witness another revolution crumbling in no time.

  
  


But they were all draped behind masks. Some were broken, preying on the tart cakes spread across the main dining table, beaklike-faces striding across the floors like pawns, bottled chess, a kaleidoscope of fear and tyranny. But there was one thing for sure.

  
  


No one knew who was who.

  
  


Ambiguity was the key. Everything was better kept a secret - the tradition that's been held for decades, even centuries. That was the reason masquerades were held within the Aevasthers. They were done once around the sun. Sometimes twice, or thrice. And near the end of the ball, once the time struck twelve, everyone should open their masks, expose their identities, and let it be the surprise of the night. But there was another rule in the court.

  
  


No one knew who was who.

  
  


But the royal family knew the game. How it was played.

  
  


_One, two, three steps at once._

  
  


_The king and the queen were laughing, bantering with each other._

  
  


_No one else knew they were the leaders of this country. Dakan gritted back a sigh._

  
  


_The royal couple danced among the other masked aristocrats. Flowing across the room, unnoticed. The king looked majestic in his pale-white silvery wear. When combined with the Queen's gown, they looked like midwinter nights. The snow, the cold. It wasn’t a marriage out of love. But they didn’t hate each other - only mutual respect, a little more, a little less. For who wouldn’t accept a prince’s offer of marriage if it could grant one inexhaustible authority?_

  
  


_As the brass blared, the Aevasther couple walked back up to the second story, where Dakan would greet them as always._

  
  


_Since he hadn't been the life of the party. Drinks and festivities weren't for him._

  
  


“Sir Rhysmel.” Philip mused, with the queen holding onto him, _controlling him._ The king didn’t get the hint in the slightest. “Would you mind-" he gestured towards the main door, "-if I leave for a bit? I'll trust Lizbeth with you." 

  
  


_It felt less than a second. Less than a moment. A loveless couple, puller of strings._

  
  


“Duty calls?”

  
  


“Duty calls," he said in a less luxurious sense. There was a deep dissonance in his voice, anyone could tell. "I'm afraid it might be of a different matter than before. I apologize for leaving so soon."

  
  


He knew he’d be in deeper trouble if he pleaded with Philip to stay. Dakan forced a smile, playing along. “Sure, it’d be my pleasure.”

  
  


"Please, excuse me." The king walked away in distress - his steps were careful, yet abrupt. He was seen talking to the guards at the entrance of the ballroom, before closing the door again. None of the guests noticed it, as expected. But now Dakan was left to dance with the devil once more.

  
  


He put down his glass of wine on a waiter’s tray in disbelief, Dakan just wanted to spend a single night without thinking about the operations. 

  
  


His lips twitched upwards. 

  
  


_Ah, yes. To meet the queen at a supposedly delightful night. This would be fun._

  
  


The two fell into an uncomfortable silence. No objections, no interjections. It happened too naturally, when they actually wanted to say something - admitting their past deeds and goals, reminiscing the past. But then she examined him like a dreg. A property she could use for her own gain.

  
  


Lizbeth had a weakness, though.

  
  


And that weakness always comes from the enemy.

  
  


“You know how I wish I was the one walking out of this nonsense," he began, exiting the silence.

  
  


Lizbeth fixed her feathered mask, uninterested. Impartial in what gossip her gesture may ensue. “Walk out. What prevents you?”

  
  


_Said the one who requested my assistance,_ he croaked. Dakan rolled his eyes, chuckling. “If you would go on about ‘standing alone on that throne beyond everything else in the world’ again, _do_ remind me to leave.”

  
  


“I don't recall anyone asking you to stay.”

  
  


" _You_ requested my assistance, Your Majesty," he pointed out.

  
  


She shrugged. "Nothing is so particular about it. You're supposed to keep an eye out on this party. Nothing more."

  
  


_Right. Nothing more._

  
  


The taste of blood never felt tighter in his mouth. He would usually come up with smarter remarks, until he realized that it wouldn't be worth it.

  
  


But he tried anyway.

  
  


_Shift the weight, shift the mood. Forcing a smile, gritted teeth, unamused._

  
  


_You'd have to save yourself to get out of here._

  
  


_Ask about her plans, blame her for all the buildup for the bomb-_

  
  


_No._

  
  


_Ask about the king. It's enough to defeat her._

  
  


“What is Philip up to?”

  
  


“Overseas business that you shouldn't be concerned about." Lizbeth had always been one to be ready. Her disinterested insults laid bare across her lips. "Merchants, sales, imports. There had been a fluctuation in the market.”

  
  


"Rough. Certain they aren’t couriers of bombs?" 

  
  


Lizbeth tilted her head, side-eyeing her gaze from the spinning couples to him. Dakan may be rational, but he hadn’t been an optimist either. “ _Encouraging_ , coming from someone with a reclusion from communions.”

  
  


“That makes us a little less different, unfortunately.” He felt a glimpse of anxiety when it became tangible that this conversation was heading nowhere. Or things that were unfathomable, _worse_. "Parties exhaust us."

  
  


“My time is better spent on valuable things _,_ " she replied, eyes repenting molten grey, ashes of the past. "I look after a country, not commoners."

  
  


“ _Commoners,_ ” Dakan repeated in exaggeration, hiding the shaky breath in his voice. “It's not fitting for a leader to speak that w-” 

  
  


"Cut the nonsense. You're also one of us." 

  
  


" _Right_ ." He nodded deliberately. " _Right. I know_ ." She was far from what one would think of the queen - since most of the information was _heavily censored and edited_ in order to create a beautiful illusion regarding the royal family. In the papers, the queen was always described as amiable, filled with courteous words and articulation. Her simplicity was what made her stand out from most other queens.

  
  


But her attitude didn’t make her seem any unassertive. Quite expected from a monarch that never bothered taking the feelings of others into consideration. She held her pride higher than the throne itself. And all Dakan wanted to do was to cloy her down. That was his purpose of agreeing into all this. Wasn't it? 

  
  


“So-” Another counter. _Enough, wake up, open your eyes,_ he tranced on the thoughts, gesturing towards the rest of the ballroom. Towards fellow bourgois attired in unaffordable clothing that he wanted to shove to her face. “- Even all this isn’t enough for you?”

  
  


Yet she looked unemotional. It enraged him. “There is never an 'enough', _advisor_. Only more. I thought they taught you about this back in the academy.”

  
  


" _God,_ you're a bad influence for Philip."

  
  


"So are you."

  
  


It felt like a fault. A lie, a cause.

  
  


" _So am I_ ? You really do have a way with words, _Lizbeth_ ," He said sarcastically. The orchestra had almost moved onto the next piece - all the dancers exchanged partners again - some decided to stop and to munch some delights, some others circled the edges of the room to be spectators. 

  
  


Dakan made his way down, stopping in the middle of the stairway. He looked back towards the queen who was still standing on the second story, like a porcelain doll, unmoving. He lifted his brows upon that bewildering impression. Sighing, he started again, “I hope standing alone on that throne wouldn’t bore you too much.”

  
  


“Carrying the weight of the crown is barely a bore. Of course you don’t understand that.”

  
  


Another man, presumably a part of the band, marched towards the grand piano lying in the middle of the orchestra. It actually felt pointless to change her mind - the consequences she was getting herself into. She had the chance to turn back, but the screw had been turned, and the ballroom floor was just a chessboard filled with no king and queen. Only pawns unready for battle. 

  
  


They could've ended their conversation there.

  
  


He really could have. To break free from these chains, asking another man or lady to dance in hand. He would've easily charmed anyone with his words, and the aching weight put on his chest would go away - but as the marbled monochrome floors injected the music, he hesitated.

  
  


Lips parted, he attempted one more time. “I do not need the crown to know how to lead the people, _Lizbeth._ ”

  
  


Her expression grimaced. “You ensured that the bomb would detonate on the castle years ago. You've requested the police to make sure everything would be fine. Yet you couldn't afford falling for a simple lie." _Oh, Dakan Rhysmel, our long time advisor. The saint, intoxicating. He was too easy of a pawn._ She followed him down the stairway, steps coiled and harsh, quiet and cruel. "We thought you were capable of being an advisor. Someone who's trustworthy enough, whom we'd depend thousands of lives on."

  
  


She snickered her way again.

  
  


She was one step higher than him.

  
  


Always. Always in a place up above. 

  
  


Her hands reached for him, fixing his tie with a single tuck. He didn’t recoil. _Not yet_.

  
  


She studied him thoroughly, only the lower half of her face was visible, still vicious. “It's unfortunate that he was ravishing. One wouldn't consider wondering if he was the one who informed the police-"

  
  


" _Lizbeth-_ "

  
  


"-If he was the one to kill the king _on purpose_?"

  
  


" _Stop_."

  
  


They were interrupted by bustling nobles, couples who hadn’t gotten the chance to dance to the previous piece. 

  
  


Lizbeth sighed, as if it meant anything. “Don't worry. It's out of your concern. I'm grateful we've gotten that old man out of this mess. But _watch out._ You mess with Philip, you'd also mess with me.”

  
  


“Deceitful,” Dakan commented, both of his hands on the back. “Philip has been a marvelous friend to me. Sincere, compassionate, he is. You don't know how much guilt I must bear everyday not warning him about you.”

  
  


“That's why I'm keeping an eye on you,” she replied. It surprised him, like a strike out of nowhere. “But knowing that your mistakes are inexcusable, it’s maybe better if we talked about it. If we had time.”

  
  


_For all the roses of the night, darling, you were red._

  
  


_She was blue._

_Paradise and agony._

  
  


_The loved and the unanswered._

  
  


_What would you do if it weren’t thornless?_

  
  


_Fuck. No_. Anything but a dance. He wouldn’t like to. He didn’t want to. He restrained himself, like a soldier retreating from the battleground. 

  
  


But Dakan never knew what it was like to back down. If he was to lose, he might as well let her fall.

  
  


“We do.” He stretched out his right arm, savoring the risk. The torrent, the craze. Even though his lips quirked into what seemed like a beam, it was disputed, out of spite. "If you'd let me have the honor of this dance."

  
  


_To search for silver linings, was to search for the eye of the storm._

  
  


It scorched alike disgust and desperation. 

  
  


A restraint and a drive. 

  
  


She didn't shake her head. 

  
  


She didn’t, she hadn’t, he anticipated.

  
  


She blurted, not in a way that was honest. " _No._ "

  
  


His breath hitched. Of course. "You _don't_ escape from your sins, Lizbeth,” he noticed the call to a darker path. It might be his only chance to strike her. “You _face_ them." 

  
  


_Pick up your sword, warrior._

  
  


_To fight head on._

  
  


_Head to head, eyes to eyes._

  
  


_To ignite something that never really existed before._

  
  


Even though hardly visible, her silver eyes dropped into a pensive manner. A bittersweet, little smile carved into her blood-tinted lips. She almost seemed innocent, if it weren’t for her menacing sentiments. “ _I do know you have a soft spot for an old friend_." Lizbeth stepped down, taking his hand like a dancer flowing through the air. "It'd be a delight to watch the world end with someone as unexciting as you." 

  
  


Dakan ushered the queen, the reaper, the _devil_ , to an empty spot - The centre of the ballroom, with checkered floors and circular ceramics, pillars and chandeliers. He glared back with slight amusement. 

  
  


Everyone present in the party inspected them, mouths agape. They were gasping - whispering to each other. Now was not a good time for them to bond. The fellow partygoers circled around them, giving a large space for those two strangers to perform. Two or three other noble-couples joined alongside. 

  
  


But in actuality, it was just a room of marionettes and their puppeteers.

  
  


They bowed at each other as they were surrounded by audible whispers. Talking about how pretty her azure dress was, and how dashing his scarlet wear was, instead of them being the queen and the right hand man. Dakan gently marched closer to her, faces inches apart. His warm, agonous breath sprawling across her face. “Well, I prefer watching the world end with someone else.”

  
  


She smiled like a thief witnessing a treasure. “Says the one who asked.”

  
  


The pianist began playing like a ravenous pound to the chest. Dakan tentatively slid his left hand to interlock with her right fingers, his grip was both firm yet unsure, potent yet frail. The low-sounding keys were soon followed by a haunting sound of the strings, singing, a choir in unison.

  
  


_Your first step must be careful, careful. Walking on crumpled leaves in a forest. You do not wake the beast._

  
  


_Second._

  
  


_Third step. Witness your partner as if they were the foremost person in the world._

  
  


_And the worst._

  
  


They exchanged death glares, barely touching each other. They were the crowns of blue and red roses, restraining from touching each other’s thorns.

  
  


_Four, five, six. A cycle on repeat. An endless agony._

  
  


_But dear, keep it tender._

  
  


_Remain gentle. Like a feather._

  
  


_Find somewhere to run away._

  
  


Yet now, they were caught in an embrace. A dangerous promenade.

  
  


“You’re looking at me like that again,” she whispered. Face facing towards his, with no aggravated intentions. 

  
  


“Like what?”

  
  


Dakan stretched his arm wide as she glided along, shifting her weight into a circle, not letting go. Even when he wanted to. _Run away. Run away. Crash and burn, you just run away._

  
  


“Like you were trying to get rid of me, to claw, to step above me," Lizbeth continued, her voice unapologetic, unforgiving, yet soft as petals. “Like you don’t actually want me here.”

  
  


He swallowed back. Probing back questions. She was taunting him, he noticed. He was no helpless, devoted slave. Glaring back in reply, amidst the suffering she had endured upon him. “Don’t ignite anything." 

  
  


“You’re afraid to lose your composure.” She smiled teasingly, morphing into the abyss. She knew no mercy. “So you wouldn’t unmask your deeds in front of everyone by accident." 

  
  


“No, I'm not afraid.” He laughed, but the kind of laughter that was filled with venom and cutlass. His hand was trembling, still wrapped around her thin frame, tugging her closer like a poison, before dipping her slightly downwards, carefully, not letting her fall. _Yet._ “Even when you’re planning to burn down the city.”

  
  


Lizbeth shook her head as she slid back up. "That remains to be seen.”

  
  


_A carnivorous waltz._

  
  


_It savored your soul, your destination. Where you truly belonged._

  
  


“I thought you were against another Allendale.”

  
  


_Who would be the prey? Who was the prey?_

  
  


The music flowed a little faster, like a deer in a rush. It’s barely the beginning of the piece, yet it felt like the end. Lizbeth started to quicken her steps, despite his arm still holding onto her waist. Her life.

  
  


Doubt caressed him. He confided in it. The chandeliers were nothing but not too bright or dimmed smoldering-gold, dangling earrings reclining from her figure, moving, moving, _moving._ The same emerald, the same blue, same shade of gold. Luxury.

  
  


“Focus on your steps instead of mine," she observed, words seemingly unfeigned. "You shouldn't let your talent go to waste.”

  
  


He raised a brow. "Which one?"

  
  


"The _dance._ "

  
  


“Your sarcasm is getting old, Lizbeth."

  
  


The piece sprawled throughout the air, carving stories and old histories of its guests. There were cellos and a grand piano blaring, fluctuating in speed, in feelings, in meanings. He led the way across the room like a maze, taking every step with consideration, like a knight looking out for any traps. A bishop in search of sins.

  
  


“I mean it,” she frowned, tongue filled with piles of counterattack, as if it was the edge of a diamond, a crystal. But it all was hidden down her merry, infrequent smile. It wasn’t real. Nothing of her was real. “Because you strike me as someone who's unable to do anything other than to spread lies and fallacies.”

  
  


_A single step. Take another one. Delve into the pleasure._

  
  


_Or two._

  
  


_Or three._

  
  


He tightened his grasp on her fingers, embers. “And you strike me as someone who does nothing but to count their petty jewels all day.”

  
  


_It's another chassé to the right, the corner of the ball._

  
  


“So asking for more, you are?” Lizbeth observed, reminiscing while calculating within her head, eyes staring off to the band, a little somber. “You believe you’re less at fault than everyone else. Playing God, as if your paperworks were scripture.” She swung in a circular turn, before stopping abruptly, as if she was the lead. “What’s the word, sanctimonious?”

  
  


_Now it's Four._

  
  


_Then five._

  
  


_Six._

  
  


_That was not how it was supposed to go._

  
  


"Really? I thought I was your favourite advisor, so-” His foot was stepping lightly, weightless. He pulled her closer to him, again, again. His eyes devouring into hers. “- _’dangerous’',_ would be a better choice of word.”

  
  


_A hesitation, a lift. A waltz at dusk, a battle by dawn._

  
  


"Favourites?" The queen laughed, seemingly somber, and yet somehow genuine. “We don’t have favourites, Dakan. You’re getting your hopes too high.”

  
  


“I was being sarcastic. _You_ were getting your hopes too high.”

  
  


“Lesser than the crown. That was out of query.”

  
  


It felt both thoughtless and frightening. Because it felt like their first dance when it actually wasn’t. They hadn’t been reproaching each other all those years. They didn’t really feel indifferent - sometimes it was a death glare, sometimes it was just the nostalgic tenderness from the past. Sometimes they’d see each other as enemies. Other times as strangers. But he was never sure if he really detested her - since Lizbeth was only blinded by her wealth.

  
  


_But the hope was like the falling petals of a rose._

  
  


_They fall, they penetrate, red, velvet, scarlet, one by one._

  
  


_Or blood._

  
  


_You were left with the thorns. The thorns, the spires, rigid. Don't grasp onto it. Don't grasp. Don't ask for anything._

  
  


_You fool._

  
  


“So, is it true?” Dakan spun her under his left arm, lessening the tension. Careful, _careful_ , don't break the ice. The cold. “Have you considered funding the orphanage for Greychapel? I’ve received a recent report from the higher council. Wonder why I’ve never heard it from you.”

  
  


“No, Philip did it. I’ve only realized how necessary it was after you demanded to make a tour there. Also, I don’t understand the necessity of telling you." Dakan’s heart sank upon the realization. Lizbeth stepped to the left before turning into a promenade. She sighed, “better late than never.”

  
  


_Better late than never?_

  
  


They swayed slowly, waltzing, exchanging wordless glances to each other - black with gold, like a rose being burned in the fanciest of fireworks. They spun, they turned, dancing with the devil. Ardhalis didn’t have even the slightest idea that they were charading in their lives. It looked like a dance, but it was a duel, complete with gentle violence and quiet brutality. 

  
  


"I'm certain you wouldn't be thinking of a never if you had a change of heart."

  
  


There was never an ‘enough’ for them. 

  
  


_They build, they create, they devour._

  
  


_Only more._

  
  


She shot back coldly. “I can’t believe you’re still expecting something from me.” 

  
  


A part of him wanted to say something, something a little too close to hate, or desperation. A part of him had missed this - speaking with her, the lonely lady in the balcony, when she only wanted him, she only wanted peace, and freedom. But it turned out, one forgot she was only the thorns of a rose. 

  
  


_I repeat, she hasn’t changed. You better remember that._ He had to make sure. Testing the waters wasn’t enough. “Yes, I was wondering if you did all that to save your own skin, or if you cared at all.”

  
  


_What are you trying to accomplish, Dakan?_

  
  


“It was both, I’m certain of it. Nothing else was to be concerned about. If only they could offer more to us."

  
  


“So, it was for your own solace?”

  
  


“If you say so.”

  
  


He frowned back in disbelief. Of course, he should’ve seen that coming. “Just now that you're reflecting upon your past doings. But after every single horrible thing you've done, you ought to think that any of us cared about you? I question your decency.”

  
  


_One, two, three._

  
  


_Four, five, six._

  
  


_What if the rose was thornless?_

  
  


They twirled like the way a maple balances itself on a bark, exchanging grips and swaying arms, as if every single step they made would last forever.

  
  


“Decency?" He can’t believe her question seemed genuine. "You haven't attempted hard enough to stop them, anyway."

  
  


_Run away, run very far away._

  
  


He wanted to indulge in his own activities - chug a wine or even leave the night. He wanted to spend the rest of the day brimming, succumbing himself into the moonlight by the window. But he found himself unable to look away. Unable to look at the clock- _the watch_ . The room was watching them. _The ball was watching them_ . "I _have._ I've gone through hell trying to prevent another allendale. You've done nothing but to-"

  
  


"-But to what?" Lizbeth gritted, tightening her tangled fingers on his. She didn’t really like his calm, restraint demeanor. He hasn’t really been really expressive, or entirely honest, all this time. "Your lips are trembling. Your heart is beating too fast. I thought you said you didn't fear me?" Her eyes exclaimed everything about an execution. "I see past your intent. Let's see if you dare sayi-"

  
  


“ _You don’t deserve the throne_ ,” he spat. He couldn’t care less if he was losing his job. “I do dare, Your Majesty. I dare to not bow to a crown like yours. Please do pay attention. You're a better fit to the bars.”

  
  


She hushed, a little disappointed. "I anticipated the better of you. Could’ve used more sickening slanders to address me-"

  
  


"And you still wonder why nobody likes you, _my queen._ ”

  
  


“-But necessary. It’s better this way. You don’t gain respect through love, _Lord Rhysmel_ ," She continued, with a heavier, dominating tone in her voice. “Not to deserve the throne or the respect, I may. But I deal with my country better than you do. Why else do you think I've been making amends against those criminals for? Just because you thought _I was another girl who begged for money_?” Her silver eyes were shrouded in vexation.

  
  


Although frail, he was taking back the lead again. Breaking the eye contact, orbs locked at the other guests. 

  
  


“They call us the enemies, but they're the devils. You take an eye for an eye. If the life of someone you love was taken away on purpose, you'll get _hurt_.” She insinuated, getting the satisfaction from Dakan’s beaten face, looking back at her. “You'll get hurt. Intolerant. You can't let people stomp on you. You’d have to stomp back. And you still think I'm at fault here.”

  
  


Dakan dug his fingers down her waist as the music slowly moved into another transition. He wasn’t going to let her escape. He led the way back, circling in a promenade, as the melody went a little quicker, closer to a crescendo. Everyone else was smiling, carefree, weightless. They couldn’t lose it any time soon. She had to hear this. 

  
  


“Everything wouldn’t be complicated if it weren’t because of you. I've been receiving direct reports regarding the south shore for _years,_ Your Majesty. And by reports, I mean _insults_ , threats, attempts to mortify the monarchy. How revolutionary, an entire decade without any significant changes. Yet you judge me for comparing Philip to his father.”

  
  


Lizbeth’s expression melted, remorseless. “I’ve always seen him as the new king. Not another doll we can play around with.”

  
  


We.

  
  


_We._

  
  


_How dare you, putting my name into this-_

  
  


_We were on the front line, after all._

  
  


Flowers for the warrior. He clicked his tongue. “You prefer addressing him as the king rather as a husband. _I'm afraid that's alarming_.” 

  
  


_She hasn't retreated._

  
  


_She hasn't._

  
  


She was uneager to stop. “You’re not in the place to judge me.”

  
  


“The place of an old _friend_ ,” he snickered, fire boiling through his throat. “ _Quoting you._ ”

  
  


“This is why I barely seek them, friends.” Lizbeth had no means to refer to anyone, for she’d never really been one to wear her heart on her sleeve, let alone have room for empaths. “But at least I’ve had a taste of them. Well, knowing you who have spent your lifetime alone within the mud, conversing with good-for-nothings against my better judgement, you clearly have no idea how the higher-ups work.”

  
  


"Care to elaborate?"

  
  


“Greed. Vanity.” Her eyes flashed towards a certain nobleman, eating up half of the cakes on the table, before asking the maid for another. She has always been like this - seeking faults in people other than herself, something Dakan greatly despises. "The people would keep asking for supplementaries, Dakan. There's no end to it."

  
  


“You can't blame the system to justify your actions."

  
  


“Are you really that different? Crawling your way up from the ground, to feast under the high court’s ceilings? They spoon-feed me with murder, you say, yet you’re doing nothing in our consent - _you’re supporting murderers._ ”

  
  


“They may be murderers, Lizbeth,” It's a name she's heard thousands of times, but it felt like throbbing daggers coming from his lips. She’d usually allow it, for old time’s sake. But she hoped she didn’t hear that one. “But it’s _you_ who’s really doing the killing.”

  
  


She let out a suspire. “You know exactly how I fought my way to get Philip’s hand in marriage.” Dakan bit his lip, he knew what she was implying. “You acknowledged how they all treated me when I was a duchess from another country - _another country,_ in need of financial support, protection. My father kept telling me to claw up the hierarchy yet - nothing worked. I thought everything was a stairway to nowhere until I had the chance, my only chance, and I took it.” Lizbeth took a dive as she spun once more, mind waltzing into several years prior. “I took it, everything went as it should until-”

  
  


They fell into another silence for several beats.

  
  


The waltz went on, melodies charging in into a crescendo. Rushing, rushing, _rushing._

  
  


Lizbeth easened her arms, looking at the ground. “-Until you persuaded Philip to abolish the death sentence.”

  
  


“ _Don't make it seem like a mistake_ , _Your Majesty,_ ” Dakan blurted, his steps becoming heavier, old memories recounting, affixing his chest. An entire lifetime flared through his mind, like what they’ve always said if you were going to meet your end. Except now he was that man again, helping a certain lady to collect manuscripts and information regarding the monarchs. He wanted equality. She wanted the throne.

  
  


He was that man again, being left in the mud as the lady became a Guinevere. 

  
  


Except Dakan’s no Lancelot. 

  
  


He was never one.

  
  


“ _You were the one who was mistaken_.”

  
  


“You're trying to dodge it, are you not?” She jolted back. “Because if we're pointing a knife against each other's throats, Dakan, we had to speak of it. You care no less about me, anyway.”

  
  


"Caring about _any_ of you was never my intention." Dakan stuttered. The reason shouldn’t be elaborated - since it was obvious, obvious, mildly, that he’s afraid for her. She wasn’t too proud to listen. She’s been blinded. Clouded. That’s what he had been trying to believe. “Unfortunately, it's still my job as an advisor to know the queen's wellbeing.”

  
  


She gritted. "Questioning about my wellbeing when you have threats ready sounds improper _._ "

  
  


“Warnings _aren’t_ threats,” he shot back.

  
  


“I know. But recount that I know everything about you.” She clasped harder onto his arm, clinging like a venom. “I know that you’re only trying to play the nice man to win back the high council’s heart, so you can save your _pretty position_ for yourself.”

  
  


He flinched.

  
  


He flinched, it was noticeable. She was winning the war.

  
  


_Orion and Sons Massacre, February xx16._

  
  


_Closed due to defamatory statements against the royal family. Him._

  
  


Dakan’s eyes widened. No, no, _no._ She couldn't be right. They may have known each other for years, for decades, but she couldn't be right. She couldn't.

  
  


_One, two, three, a waltz was pretty much a tragedy. An entertainment without a lover’s name._

  
  


_Ten years. Twelve years. Fifteen, or twenty._

  
  


_The guilt wouldn't leave._

  
  


_It stayed. It stays._

  
  


“Also, you let your feelings get in the way.” Every word only stung like different kinds of heat. Or fire. Quiet rage started to flicker by his eyes. She continued, mercilessly. “You have the wits, seeing everything through an 'open mind'. You may have tried stopping Edward from burning down what we’ve made, and I may have stabbed you in the back, but you are no stranger to the _game_.”

  
  


Dakan was an endless slumber of questions. His jaw tensed, he knew what she was going to say. 

  
  


_Four, five, six, if beats without melodies didn’t exist, you stop. Don’t take chances, don’t take another step. You stop as you must._

  
  


_Like the opening of an old wound._

  
  


“ _The high advisor of Ardhalis_ , the lord, _the Masque of the Red Death,_ ” Lizbeth praised mockingly, the same way she’d see the theatrics doing. Except with little less emotion. “Or should I say, the sepulcher of a sinner, ever so afraid to take a step forward, just because he favors his reputation. Because he thought the court was a stage, and that the council was open to charades.”

  
  


_The Snapdragon Massacre._

  
  


_To bring justice for the people._

  
  


_Closed down by the police. Due to high risk._

  
  


_Lizbeth, stop. STOP._ He retched on the word. The name. Against his position, maybe not as an advisor, maybe not a friend. He tightened his grip on her hand as a warning.

  
  


It wouldn’t stop her. “The revolution wouldn’t be stretched to ten years if it weren’t for him, you know.”

  
  


" _What the hell-_ " He cursed under his breath, voice weary and rushed. He couldn't maintain his demeanor. “-Lizbeth, _please_ , we’ve agreed not to speak of th-”

  
  


“-Careless in action, versatile in words. Rather charming, but not too bright. Get you a gentleman that is genuine, _not a hypocrite,"_ she chided.

  
  


“ _I beg your bloody pardon_?”

  
  


“I left you for Philip because you were the one who failed the Snapdragons. We told you not to mention anything about the fliers directly to the Aevasthers, but how you let your feelings get into the way. You said love was inevitable, yet you also chose power. All I was to do was to _do the killing blow_.” 

  
  


_Closed down by the police._

  
  


_Guns were used._

  
  


The music hadn't stopped.

  
  


It kept playing, playing, playing.

  
  


_Please. PLEASE. End already._

  
  


He snorted humorlessly. " _I_ chose power? That wasn't all of this about."

_Romy Atthala. Radio presenter. Arrested due to her comment on the postponed implementation of the access for education in the southern shore._

  
  


_Thierry Cross. Political critic. Jailed due to his comment on the raised stakes and taxes._

  
  


_And many more. They were excellent on their fields. There was no way they could get caught._

  
  


_There was no way they could get caught._

  
  


_Unless someone turned them in._

  
  


"Trust me, it was." She shifted forward, arm swaying to the back of his head, his neck. Softly, she whispered right by his ears. "You had a change of heart once you were asked to be the king's right hand man. You were prettier under the court. You heightened your heart, your charms, until you rammed about the Snapdragons in front of Edward. You gave the information of every single journalist that attacked the Aevasthers just so you can gain his trust. You've traded _innocents_ for your own good. We remember. _I_ remember." Her breath sent shivers down his spine, “-you’re still dancing on thin ice, _Dakan_.”

  
  


And the piece ceased playing. The guests howled in praise. Clapping, clapping, _clapping_. 

  
  


They didn’t bother bowing. _They made it out alive._ Dakan had already snatched her hand, pulling her, stomping away from the main hall. They were now by the entrance door, the same one where the king had left earlier - except the guards weren’t present anymore. He had all the urge to throw his mask away, to get rid of her, but he didn’t want to. He tried, but he didn’t want to. She crossed her hands again, utterly defensive.

  
  


Dakan put both hands on his own wrists, challenging her power. He’s always had this composure, in which everyone admired. He’s been rather feisty, but he was never one to be enraged over things he shouldn’t be mad about. “What the _hell_ was that?"

  
  


Usually he would swallow back his retorts and remain respectful. As the princely figure he usually was. It became a performance for her. A bait, a taunt. “You tell me what happened, _advisor_.”

  
  


“I don’t know -" he outstretched his arms wide, trying to make it big. "-I _TOLD_ you not to mention that in front of me- _you KNOW why I did it._ Gaining his trust was necessary when you're thinking of the future of this country." 

  
  


The look on her face showed no remorse. Her eyes were barely visible behind that mask, but he felt them. Shooting through “You _don't_ yell at your queen, Dakan. You're just the worst between us, because you _actually_ killed, _literally_."

  
  


“Bloody hell, Liz--"

  
  


"-- _Turning in people purposely was a murderous intent."_

  
  


"-How am I to remain well-mannered if you acted this way? Why the _fu-_ ” he gulped back the word. " _Why?_ All right, before anything else, I turned them in _not_ with the intention of harm. I wanted to make sure to Edward that he can take my word for granted. Isn't that what you've been doing with Philip?"

  
  


"So what," she said, without warning. "So what about my husband?"

  
  


"You're twisting your words again- _why did they make you queen_?"

  
  


She heightened her head again. Her pride, her crown. “Your chivalry is a bore. Can’t say I actually like it when you’re like this,” she emphasized.

  
  


_She darted away again._

  
  


“-Oh, by insulting me? Stomping on my dignity for your own amusement?"

  
  


“-I’m _helping_ you. We’d both be dead under the course of a month, and you had to wake up from your naiveté. The more you try to change, the more you’re repeating history. I'm trying to protect _my_ people, _advisor._ ”

  
  


People had started looking at them.

  
  


They had noticed.

  
  


He was drawing a sword for a battle he wouldn’t win.

  
  


_It was a bait. A bait. Another bait of hers. It was her fault. She incited this._

  
  


“Then,” he spat, the look he gave her was like one of a butcher slaughtering a meat, “ _it’s better not to see me trying at all_.”

  
  


He stormed outside. 

  
  


_The queen has always meant to be alone, anyway._

  
  


At first, she was satisfied. She liked seeing him like this - to be confronted by the past he’s been running away from, or it may just be her hobby of pissing off certain social classes. Lizbeth couldn’t ever see anyone equivalent to herself, let alone her husband, let alone one of the ones closest to her. In the end, she remained unattainable, the diamond, and the queen. 

  
  


But the thought surged in like a wave.

  
  


She’d never seen him like this.

  
  


No, never in the past years of loving him, not even the look he gave her whilst finding out that she was a traitor as well. 

  
  


Lizbeth Aevasther was no girl to look back to the past. No lady to feel remorse. 

  
  


Yet she went after him.

  
  


She never learned.

  
  


////

  
  


The clock struck twelve when she walked down the hallway, although it’s a greater risk if she removed her mask. She knew she’d find him somewhere.

  
  


Despite the ongoing ruckus, the ball wasn't even over yet. He could hear the orchestra playing another danube, slightly. Everyone had been called off duty, they're free to dance in broad moonlight for the rest of the night. Dakan rested his body by the edge of the castle’s hallway. Black with gold, black with red. Candelabras burning, menacingly, scraping against his skin from afar. Then he felt that haunting presence again.

  
  


The sound of her heels echoed.

  
  


“It was improper to walk out of me without reasoning. Before I hear an apology, I’d like to hear your explanation,” she started again, voice sounding like soft poetry. Dakan stopped, his head turning a little bit to the right. 

  
  


He didn't reply. 

  
  


He didn't reply, he didn't want to. Not bothering to _look_ at her, he walked across the hallway, passing window by window, as the night was getting darker and darker.

  
  


But how he was readable. She pondered. “This is one of the rarest moments where I’d be all ears. You better not waste it.”

  
  


“ _Waste it_ ?" The word seemed like a trigger to him. He felt nauseous as he rose back to her. " _Lizbeth_ , I've wasted all these years covering you. Should've seen this coming. Of course you would play around me. Utilizing me. Of course.”

  
  


“You dreg-” she mocked, losing her composure, “would me pointing out your flaws justify _you_ disrespecting the queen?”

  
  


“What do I know? It's the masquerade, _Your High Queen._ No one knew I was yelling at _you._ ”

  
  


“So you _do_ deserve a punishment,” that voice. Stone-cold, unapologetic. Lizbeth clutched her hands, putting them on her wrist. She’s never been afraid either. “I thought you wanted to leave an adequate impression for everyone. Too bad the advisor isn't being a proper role model. Let alone a godfathe-"

  
  


" _YOU DON'T-"_ he pointed at her, he pointed. He couldn't help it anymore. "-Bring my entire life to the table. Don't say another word-" 

  
  


"You've always talked about wanting a life you deserve-"

  
  


"Wha- and you ruined it! _Thank you,_ " The brunette frowned hastily, coldly, thinking about the guts left even though there was an obvious ticking bomb over their pretty little heads. “Look, I thought of not joining the masquerade - I thought of sleeping instead, having the time of the night, without all this, without this bloody mask-- _no_ .” He stepped forward, gleaming emerald eyes shining under the past moonlight - desperation. Dakan wanted to take her clenched hands, wanted to pat her shoulders, but the rage kept bottling up. He gulped back an insult. Heavy breathing, before daring himself to open his mask. " _I wish I never came_."

  
  


“You know I begged Philip _not_ to call you-”

  
  


" _Stop. I know._ " His fingers rattled on its ornaments, before looking back at her unfortunately beautiful figure. “Listen. I wanted to talk to you. I’ve - I know, I know that things would never be the same again, but I wouldn’t like if the world caved in without an old _friend_ siding with me.” The word ‘friend’ shouldn’t have felt so odd. “I could’ve easily opted to drown in my work again, but then it struck me. I wanted to-”

  
  


“- _Nonsense_." Lizbeth stepped closer to the wall, right in front of him. The hallway was emptier than before, probably because the guards were only patrolling near the ballroom. "You didn't want to talk to me,” she continued sarcastically, “you devalued the throne. You've made comparisons. Indiscreet considerations, to the point you asked me for a dance just to laugh at a falling throne-"

  
  


“What- Liz- _no_ \- _stop cutting me,_ I wanted to reconcile with you-” 

  
  


She snapped. “ _I don't reconcile with a snitch._ You don't beg for a trust, Dakan. I can't see why you kept asking _us_ to confide in you-”

  
  


“Because we’ve known each other for a long time, _Lizbeth_ ,” Her name felt like fire coming from his lips. “I know we barely converse properly anymore, we’ve always been indifferent - I wanted to settle some things down before everything came to an end - either in death, or us both behind the bars.” She wasn’t listening. She wasn’t bloody listening. Of course she wouldn’t. “I’m not asking for a smile after I make you tea every morning, I just - can’t we just make the best of the time we’ve had left?”

  
  


"Well, you know what was awaiting you when you _chose_ this life," she snarled as the candelabra crackled around them. 

  
  


He gestured at himself, vanity, vanity, _vanity._ “And you think you have the right to disregard my position? My dignity?"

  
  


“Dignity?" Lizbeth belted. "You, of all people - you question _my_ sentiments regarding your dignity? I’ve talked rubbish in front of Philip so many times and he didn’t even ba--”

"You were with _Philip_ , I couldn't care less."

  
  


“Listen to me--”

  
  


“I feel so sorry for him to spend a life with you.”

  
  


“ _Dakan_ , listen-”

  
  


“You expect me to listen, when you haven’t been listening to me yourself?”

  
  


“ _AS THE QUEEN OF THE COURT, DAKAN, I COMMAND YOU TO STOP_.”

  
  


_Fuck._

  
  


_I knew that was coming._

  
  


She hadn't meant to scream back. She'd always been going on with the rats and insults, but it was the first time she did it out of spite. Lizbeth clenched onto her fists. " _I know you don't like me_ ," she husked, pulling away. It's grim. It's cold. It's menacing. “You detest me -- like this. But _the king_ didn't leave me at the ball for you to tear me down.”

  
  


“Believe me, he'd want the same thing.” His jade eyes never left hers. One wonders why. “You're the most insufferable person I've ever met, and you know that I've met the members of the Phantom Scythe. They are _far more respectable than you_.”

  
  


Her voice reclined. “Worse? I'm better than those drenched criminals." 

  
  


“But you're _evil,_ Lizzie. They became criminals mainly because of _you_ ," he hissed. 

  
  


“Now, what right do you have to compare me to them?” Lizbeth whispered, leaning in, lips hovering just above the beaten advisor’s ear. “Listen to yourself. We're not that different. You’re just using my words against me because I wasn’t at _fault_.”

  
  


He backed away. “Why did I even try in the first place-”

  
  


“Oh,” she smiled coldly. “Afraid, aren’t you?”

  
  


Growing up a lavish gentleman, the prodigal advisor has been taught to accept everything with a smile. Repressed, hidden, broken, but, somehow, peaceful. Lizbeth can't stand looking at his back one more time - it's the hundredth time, yet nothing has changed. It’s not often that she let her walls down. 

  
  


“No. It’d be so much better if I never played a part in your game.”

  
  


_Black with gold._

  
  


_Black with red._

  
  


_Oh, my dear little rose. The sky, the dove, the blue._

  
  


_He isn't supposed to be your downfall. You're better than this._

  
  


But Lizbeth Aevasther was not one to give in. She kept building, building, running away. She beckoned. “The crown’s no empty chessboard, Rhysmel, you can’t win by resigning. ”

  
  


He shouldn't be feeling sorry. He shouldn't be feeling sorry for her. _Say it_ , his thoughts enraged. _SAY IT_ . “I’d much rather rot by the streets than to assist you in _voluntary manslaughter_."

  
  


“Then rot-" a quiet growl of irritation. She shot those pairs of eyes again - the silver gunpowder she’d throw at him, it’s deadly. Dangerous. Never this. A sinister smile painted across her lips. "-And never come back.”

  
  


“ _Oh, I'd love to_ ," He threw the word across the hall, piercing, jade eyes blaring directly at her. “I'd love to indulge in my own activities, Lizbeth, away from any of you _monsters_.” Fingers gripping harder to the desk, it’s now dark, damp, and cold. They could’ve swore they’d freeze if the candlelights were put off. “Believing you could change was the stupidest thing I've ever done.”

  
  


" _YOU STILL - You still expect me to side with you_ ?" The queen shrieked, voice breaking apart. “You’re expecting me to fully put my trust in you, who have betrayed Snapdragons before, exposing us to the monarchs?” She felt the heat rising in her eyes, her throat. “I know you were angered because I only cared about my opportunities - not the people - but would that justify you writing utter narratives about how awful the current crown is so that the council would turn against me? To throw me behind the bars as you get away? Just how _selfish_ of a man you ought to be?”

  
  


“And what did you expect me to do? _Obey_? Bowing to thrones like you, burying all those innocent lives under diamonds and gold?”

  
  


"Whatever you’re supposed to do, Dakan. It's the same between us. We don't get everything we wanted and you just have to _suck it up_ ." She tried her best not to meet his gaze. Throat dried up after desperately swallowing her own tears. Not now. _NOT NOW_. Lizbeth Aevasther is not one to cry. She clashed back, throat filled with salt and boiled water. “When all this is over, remind me to banish you from the country.”

  
  


"And do _remind_ me to get rid of you _first_ ," The joke was tossed around often. It used to be lighthearted - gentle, loving, polite. But now, it's a death wish. She wasn't worth it. She wasn't, at all. "My days as the advisor were perfect until _you_ came into play."

  
  


“You're justifying your case, now? Just because you're envious of my position?”

  
  


_This is wrong_ . _This is wrong, Dakan, you’re digging your own grave._

  
  


Fate felt like a threat. Very much so. “It doesn’t matter. You’re no queen in no time.”

  
  


“You'll wind up dead in no time.”

  
  


“ _THEN WHY HAVEN'T YOU GET RID ME_ ?" He exclaimed, chest brimming in conflagration. “You had the power, _you_ had the chance, you have your sentence. If _I_ were your nuisance, Lizbeth-" he pointed towards the end of the hallway, "- _command the guards right now. End me_.”

  
  


He was trembling. He was trembling. His voice sturdy and towering throughout the hallway. But he knew she wouldn't. She wouldn't dare.

  
  


The ballroom music came to an end.

  
  


Speak of the bloody devil.

  
  


Flocking guards. As if on cue. He felt like a god.

  
  


Sounds of iron, dangling. Dangling, it wasn’t the best time to fight.

  
  


Lizbeth noticed this, with great rebuttal in her voice. She can't have her reputation broken. She can't have it. “Continue this elsewhere. The guards are coming.”

  
  


“Oh- excellent timing. If you knew everything about me, so do I regarding _you._ I recount when you first told me your intentions. We faked our relationship - or whatever the _hell_ we had in the past- in order to get what we actually desired. I wanted the warmth. The children reading, the love. You wanted the crown. The country, the land. _I shouldn't have been surprised that you're willing to go this far for your petty goal._ I have every single reason for your downfall. I can be your doom. You bloody know this. You are the last face I’ve ever wanted to see tonigh-"

  
  


“ _Dakan. Continue this elsewhere._ ”

  
  


Every pound felt like a pendulum. Silhouette of silver soldiers visible from faraway.

  
  


“-You craved the taste of death, and now you're embracing it. _You've attempted to kill Philip, but you already had Arthur. He still needed a father._ ”

  
  


“ _STOP, Dakan, you don't have the authority to-_ ”

  
  


They walked closer.

  
  


Closer.

  
  


There was only one thing she could think of. For some reason.

  
  


“-Into this hell? _LISTEN, dear High Queen, Your Grace, Your Royal Highness_ , from the very first time I laid an eye on you - from the very first time I heard of your name. From the earliest seconds I knew what I was getting into, _Lizbeth_ , I’ve always hated you. I’ve always wanted you gone. Even if we met under different circumstances, things would never change. From the very first time I met you, I’ve always been in o-”

  
  


She slammed her lips into his, crashing, burning, both hands tugging him by the collar - diving, pushing into him. It felt like both grain, salt, and fire. For a second, he wanted to push her away, to shove her away, he- _did she just-_

  
  


He didn't want it to end. Somehow he didn’t.

  
  


They’ve been drowning in fire too long they’ve dimmed into the void.

  
  


_The sinful desires._

  
  


“- _silence_ ,” Lizbeth gasped into his lips, shallow yet entrancing. Sparking heat smoldering from her chest. Their chests. “Don’t recount what just happened, I need you to remain silent.”

  
  


He didn't reply.

  
  


She’d almost pleaded. She’d almost pleaded for more. She didn't admit- she inclined. As if ordered, he grazed his hand across her warm skin, her face, opening her mask, exposing her prurient flares into the burning air. It was at this moment they were both enthralled, they weren’t both lying. Their masks were off, the hateful, _lustful_ thoughts spiraled onto his head, his mind, eyes to eyes. It was both brimming passion and detestation. 

  
  


Her face was like a shadow lurking in the dark, her lips deliciously inviting.

  
  


Everything felt like a piece of a memory. How this used to be everything he’s ever wanted, to caress her face, like a dove within moonlight, a princess. It didn’t play out exactly how he wanted it to be. He didn’t want to. And it’s his eyes again, the tint of a rainforest, the colour of jade. It burned with the golden blinks of candlelight. But now it’s only black with gold.

  
  


Black with gold, black with red, he pursed his lips. Thousands of images ran through his mind, not plans to hurt, not plans to kill.

  
  


_It was to devour._

  
  


_If he was battling a losing war, she must fall too._

  
  


He lurched back, consuming, forcing an entrance with his tongue. His fingers cradled through her braided auburn locks, asserting his dominance and the ego he’s been piling on his back. The guilt, the hatred, the desperation. Her lips felt like thorns of roses, their tongues dominating each other in power, sinful prayers whispered against her skin. She moaned into his lips hungrily, somehow wanting more, _wanting more_ , her hands cradling up to pull him even closer, making her way across his jaw and his hair, respectively. They savored each other like brimming fire, arms entangled against each other, frictions. She slid to clutch onto his suit, unable to let go, not wanting to let go, swallowing back the heat she had lost all this time.

  
  


Then it felt like death.

  
  


She didn’t shove him away.

  
  


Dakan's eyes blinked open, restraining himself from consuming more of her softened lips. 

  
  


“That didn’t,” Lizbeth rasped. Face flashing red as bonfire. “That never happened.”

  
  


She walked away, stepping a little faster than ever, probably a little nervous, silver eyes shifting like a broken glass. “You shouldn’t have pulled back-”

  
  


He breathed smugly. “You didn't command me to stop.”

  
  


"That _wasn't the case._ " The high queen turned back with silver eyes gleaming, fuming with hope. A silver lining, an untold confession. A mystery. She held her breath, praying that he'd say what she had been thinking. The sinful agony rushing to her chest, to step away. The past wasn’t meant to be repeated. It’s not meant to be remembered. “If you weren’t blathering, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  
  
  


“Wanted to tell your husband you started it _._ ” he finally confided. Of why the gods are looking down on them right now. _The law may judge me,_ he wanted to say. _Burn me alive,_ he should’ve said. But he opted for something else. He should've threatened her. He should’ve taken advantage of this. But he didn’t want to. “But I didn’t expect you to feel the same.” 

  
  


_The same?_

  
  


It must be a lie. It had to be.

  
  


He bit his lip, he couldn’t be. His heart belonged to _someone else_. This was wrong.

  
  


_She’s married. She’s married to the king._

  
  


Lizbeth shot back to meet his gaze. And now she was that girl again, dreaming of something better than her unrelieved life, to stop and smell the roses, to play in the park after the academy days, to fall in love with someone near her age, those pair of emerald eyes, dreaming, hoping. “I haven’t gotten rid of you because you’re still in great use for the Purple Hyacinth business. You’re pretty much needed in the court, it’d be a fault to eliminate y-”

  
  


“-Have you been trying to pull me back into you?"

  
  


It’s the words she didn’t say, but it’s better that way. Some things are better left unsaid. He didn't want to add. She knew it was partly true. She let out a coarse sigh, shaking her head. Even she couldn't come up with an excuse.

  
  


" _I knew it.”_

  
  


“We do not speak of this again, Rhysmel.” Lizbeth gritted her teeth, the blood flowing faster than the abusions dancing through her head. _Don't cry yet. There's no point fixing someone who's trying to destroy you. Feelings weaken you. You do not give in._ “Don’t remind me of what we used to be.”

  
  


_You run away._

  
  


He wasn’t one to tear one’s heart to pieces. He wanted to embrace her, assure her, it’s fine. It’s fine. But he bit his lip, striding aside. “Save your indifference for later. You can have everything, _but me_.”

  
  


" _Go_ , this is a command," she whispered, to his surprise. It's seemingly innocent, sweet, graceful, like how a maiden would say to a loved one - but he isn't. He wasn't. He wished he was. He shouldn’t be - he shouldn’t be feeling like she was his home, his destination. She should’ve been a stranger, an enemy. “You heard me,” Lizbeth lifted her fair face back up, meeting his saddened, puzzled gaze. “My forgiveness is a _privilege_ , Dakan. It’s best to stay away from me.”

  
  


His heart sank once more, as he stepped further, bowing. “Please excuse me, Lizb-"

  
  


“-Refer to me in ways which people wouldn’t _talk_ , _advisor_.”

  
  


It stung way harder than it should have.

  
  


“I’m sorry, _my queen._ ”

  
  


And so he left her behind. Just as normal and casual like he'd usually do in the courtroom. Every single time he'd barge in to report another announcement, every single time he'd advise the king to make important decisions. The word wouldn’t get around, for there was no witness.

  
  


Yet she kept drawing him closer in ways even the devil wouldn’t think of.

  
  


He left.

  
  


He never really learned either.

**Author's Note:**

> Dakan, Dakan, please. You have Tristan in front of you yet you're looking to the past- man's gotta pick your battles.
> 
> OKAY. WOW. WHAT DO I SAY. PHEW.
> 
> First of all. Thank you for EVERYONE who has helped me with this. Okay this is far from perfect and I could've done so much more with this, but if I kept editing, it wouldn't see the light of day. This goes especially for the amazingly talented [Elle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pigeonsatdawn) and [Shivii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naveri/pseuds/Naveri) for beta and proofreading this monster of a mess. THANK YOU FOR BEING PATIENT WITH ME SPAMMING YOUR DMs HAHAHAHA IM SO SORRYYY AND MANY OTHERS THAT HAS HELPED ME WITH THIS AS WELL. Also.
> 
> ALL THE OUTFIT'S DESCRIPTIONS, ESPECIALLY LIZBETH'S, COMES FROM @Heathersky.333 from Instagram, or our dear friend, Heather. I can't link because omg I'm so dumb at formatting but all the credit goes to her. I wouldn't be able to write this without her fact-checking as well.
> 
> SO. At first. I... hadn't meant to write a fic about them. Especially it deals with royal cheating, scandals, and... infidelity. Nope. I actually don't like it. HAHA SURPRISE SURPRISE. I LOVE Dakistan. But I can't help loving Dakanbeth - it's like something else, it's something you really HATE at first but the more you think of it, the more you love it. And I'M ALL HERE FOR IT, OKAY?
> 
> Moral of the story :
> 
> Tristan Sinclair is here, Dakan. Leave Lizbeth be. She can't sit with any of you, or us.
> 
> JOKES ASIDE. YEAH AGAIN. THANK YOU SO MIUCH FOR READING. 
> 
> Any kudos/comments would be appreciated! 
> 
> \- Mery <3


End file.
